


The Mystery of Crying Rock

by connortrain12



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Gen, Graphic Description, Isolation, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Other, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23589595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connortrain12/pseuds/connortrain12
Summary: The Australian outback. Quiet, calm and peaceful. The perfect place for something to hide, under the darkness of Crying Rock.
Kudos: 3





	The Mystery of Crying Rock

The Mystery of Crying Rock

I write this in a strange state of melancholy since by the end of the night I believe that I will be visited. I do not know what it is or what it wishes to do, but I can only assume it is something most vile and horrifying. The panic that should be consuming my mind like a torturous vice has been quelled by the freeing herb that lies beside me, a small sign of weakness on my part but a doomed man should be granted at least some mercy. I have decided to break the hold fear has over me and tell my story so at least someone else may remember me. The need to tell someone, anyone, about the darkness that occurred at Crying Rock in that blistering summer, overcomes any fear those men may have placed into me.

I had completed a degree in journalism during the past year and decided to celebrate this feat by travelling around Australia, the act of studying the wonderful flora and fauna was to be fantastic practice for my writing. The journey itself was enjoyable, as I made my way across the Outback sleeping in cheap motels and the cramped backseat of my car. This calming experience was cut short by a violent bang emitting from the hood of the vehicle, followed soon by thick ink black smoke trailing from its crevices.

The car screeched loudly as it pulled over, my brow instantly developing a thin sheen of sweat, I stepped out and was suddenly assaulted by the harsh Australian sun. I walked to the front of the vehicle, but a quick inspection of the hood did nothing but fill my nose with the putrid odour of smoke, leaving me coughing and sputtering to rid myself of it. A glance at my phone revealed not only was I stranded in the middle of an outback road, but I had no reception either, making my situation quite dire. 

I stood there bemoaning this for some time, till the sun caused my shirt to cling to my back and chest like ab unpleasant second skin. A cruiser pulled beside me while I was participating in this act of self-loathing, the window slowly rolled down as a police officer leaned out from it, his dark-skinned bearded face weathered by long hours in the sun greeted me. I felt his eyes, even though they had been hidden by dark reflective shades, scanning over the car and myself. With sheepish nature, I explained my circumstances. His mouth turned up slightly with what I hoped to be amused understanding before reaching over and opening his passenger side door.

I stood there for a few moments before walking to the other side of the cruiser and entering the air-conditioned interior. If I had known what hideous and accursed horrors I would be subjected to in the coming days, I wouldn’t have been so swift as to accept the officer’s offer.

I

The town of Crying Rock gave a drab and dreary first impression as my temporary companion and I drove silently past its battered and barely readable welcome sign. We met no one else on the road but had begun to pass inhabited farmhouses. There were only dried dying gardens shadowed by makeshift clotheslines carrying dusty clothes, being seen to by sullen-looking women, working the day away with mindless chores. The officer who has been quiet for the entirety of our journey broke the silence. My seatbelt buckled slightly as I jumped in surprise.

“It may not be much but it’s home.” He mumbled loudly, his attention solely on the road. “We’re a farming town, dealing with wheat and cattle. Don’t tend to get many new people, ‘cept a family from the States a couple of years ago, never could remember what part...Arkham I think.” 

This mindless droning continued on for several minutes as we made our tedious travel, his constant comments barely registering as my attention had been taken by a large goliath of rock standing on the town outskirts. It stood at 7 metres in height and about 4 metres in width, the boulder and the mound it stood on loomed over us like a silent watcher.

“That’s the Crying Rock.” I was snapped away from my musings, the officer staring at me from the corner of his eye, the slight awkwardness that comes from being in a stranger’s car only deepening under the gaze of those shaded eyes. “The entire town is named after that big ol’ piece of Granite. There are two grooves in the rock that collect water and it slowly trickles down the rock face hence the name.”

Once again, my driver fell into silence, the primitive dirt country roads giving way to more typical paved roads, albeit cracked and plagued with potholes. The constant jolts I was subjected to made the journey an unenjoyable one and brought unsavoury comments to my tongue. The town of Crying Rock itself did nothing to remedy my foul mood, the streets seemingly deserted with the only sign of life being the drawn curtains and gardens that looked somewhat cared for in front of the homes as we near the centre. The town centre held the foundations of a habitable location, a rundown supermarket and mechanic stood side by side, a dismantled ute visible in the open workshop.

The church stood opposite and took my attention for troubling reasons. I had been looking upon what once could have been a place of worship for Catholicism or Christianity, the structure bringing back memories of Tuesday assemblies and bland Eucharist wafers. That is where the similarities stopped, however, as what I assumed was once white paint rested peeled and greying on its walls. The typical symbols of more traditional Abrahamic religions replaced by ones crafted by random lines and shapes. These felt alien to me, a deep sense of unease coiled around my heart, something dark hid in those symbols as it wore the skin of a church, familiar yet completely unrecognisable. 

We pulled to a stop in front of one of the more presentable buildings as the sun started to set behind the mound on which the town’s namesake stood. Bathed in quickly fading orange light stood a two-story creation of brick and wood that resembled any old country household I had seen in my travels.

I stepped out the car with a slight shiver, unable to shake the spell the false church had cast over me. My occupied and static-filled mind was too clouded to notice the sounds of feet striking the gravel behind me.

“Hello love, you must be the poor soul Jamie pulled off the side of the road.” The voice had a shrill and sharp nature of glass shattering capabilities. Its owner, a stout and visibly pregnant woman reached out and shakes my hand with surprising strength from someone her size. “My name is Charlotte and I am Jamie’s wife” Her features were smoother than her husband’s but contained an doughy sag as through she was a doll that had been left in the microwave for a few moments. I found myself being led into the house, the now named Jamie trailing behind me. “You can rest here until you can leave, and I will not be taking no for an answer.” At the mention of rest, an audible yawn and sudden fatigue had beset me, my body becoming leaden as I felt Jamie’s hand grasping my shoulder and leading me up the stairs to a barely illuminated hallway.

“Your room is the last one on the left, please try and keep the noise down. Charlotte has been having trouble sleeping as of late,” I forced myself to nod and smile before seemingly gliding across to the hall, my sleep addled mind just registering a small black book on the bedside table. Flipping through its pages did little to help me as the words flew through my mind like the rest of my barely lucid thoughts, the call of soft sheets and the realm of dreams pulling me to the bed. The black book became entrapped tightly in my hands under the light of a gibbous moon shining through the window as the Sandman took me away. 

II

The officer and his wife proved to be most charitable to an unfortunate soul, giving me a nice hearty breakfast of homemade sausages and scrambled eggs. Despite her dwarfish appearance Charlotte had turned out to be a woman in possession of delicate and masterful hands in the art of cooking. As the housewife placed my meal in front of me with its enticing and salivating scents clouding my senses, I found my sight drawn to her protruding belly. The day before she had seemed to be on the cusp of the third trimester, where the mother would constantly feel the kicks of her offspring in the middle of a restless night. However, over the course of the night my host had seemed to have sprung forth several weeks into the future, her stomach was round and taunt seemingly about to burst like an especially morbid balloon. With a silenced tongue I refused to make any comment about this as I know there is little more terrifying then a woman who has been asked about her size.

The meal ended with me nursing a refreshing glass of orange juice in one hand and a smouldering cigarette in the other, courtesy of Officer Jamie who himself was taking long draws from his own fag. The sharp taste of tobacco cleared my mind of any remaining grasps of fatigue that may have followed me from my slumber. A deep hum escaped my smoking partner as he smiled at his departing wife before turning his attention to me.

“Going to check your car today?” The inquiry was casual but spoken by a man who clearly didn’t partake in the act of small talk often. I nodded, gripping my glass of juice and downing the rest of the beverage. “It’s a nice day for a walk anyway.” A small glance out of a nearby window granted me the sight of a clear blue sky, the only clouds there to block the blinding rays from the sun’s gaseous exterior, a rare blessing for a country town.

The walk to the workshop while initially starting off with high hopes began to be slowly replaced by the uncontrollable sense of unease that has been plaguing me since entering the town. I had felt gazes coming from blinded windows, heard the hushed whispers of townsfolk talking about the new outsider that has stumbled into their town. However, this was to be expected in such a quiet and seemingly dull habitat, no the thing that irked me most was the lack of children’s laughter. A calm day such as this should be one where the sound of bare little feet striking the streets was audible along with the sharp shriek of laughter, no car to stop their fun as the elders are forced into the mundane routines of working life. This was not the case, there had been no laughter around me and the only footsteps that entered my ears was my own. Thick leather soled shoes striking the pavement did not bring the same joy of the ones of a child, and my new melancholy state was not helped by the words of the large hairy, bare-chested mechanic that inhabited the workshop. 

“Sorry, bud the car won’t be done for at least another couple more days.” The mechanic stated with an lisp, his workplace filled with fumes and bothersome noises. I subtly attempted to mask the overpowering scents through the fabric of my shirt, only slightly attempting to escape the stifling environment. I left with a small nod of gratitude, my neck and face turning pink at the sound of the man’s rasping laughter about “damned city boys”. 

The rest of my day was spent in the realms of my own mind, locked away in my borrowed room. As I rested on the freshly cleaned quilts that smelt faintly of cheap soap and fabric softener, my face was hidden away by the black book that had been the companion of my bed the night before. It’s strange phrases and queer symbols made no more sense to my sharp mind then the sleep ailed one that had previously gazed upon it, clearly this was the work of a madman trying to portray himself as a prophet but failing at the task. Despite this, it had been on the bedside as if it was a cheap motel’s Old Testament and what had driven this town to accept such a strange practice to worship?

III

As the night drew near signified by the rays of the sun disappearing behind the Crying Rock the idea of an early slumber had become most appealing. But as my body melded into the quilt, my old companion drowsiness would not greet me, my mind swam with the words of the text. I laid there strewn across the bed, with no one coming to check on me, even after the moon graced the sky with its presence and the sounds of night time critters echoed outside my window. 

The stairs and floorboards of the house creaked at the interval of footsteps, but there was another sound that sent me sitting up slightly so my eyes could stare at the bolted door of my room. It was the soft and unmistakable noise emitted by the rattling of the doorknob. The rattling continued for quite some time, but the bolt held true, I admit to not acting as frightened as a man who is facing this situation should be, but my constant plague of unease had proved advantageous for once. I had been prepared for this fright. Finally, that damnable noise ceased, the potential invader stomping away with audible curses. 

There I sat, staring at the door like an ass, grasping my shoe as if its leather body would prove a competent weapon against my attacker. This encounter had proven that it was time to leave the town, whether my vehicle was ready or not. This sense of flight was further pushed onto me when the sounds of thunderous footsteps travelled up the halls, the prowler’s body striking my door and rattling the wooden frame with a crack. Clearly, it was time to leave. In a matter of seconds, I was robed but shoeless and trying to force open the window, thankful that Charlotte hadn’t thought to lock it during her cleaning.

A second strike against the door sent cracks along the cheap wood, It wouldn’t last another assault. The drop from the window gave me some pause, it was quite the fall and the sun-hardened dirt of the Outback did not make for a comfortable platform to fall on. However, the decision was snatched from my grasp as the decimated door smashes against the floor behind me and I dropped. The sense of vertigo brought forth by my few seconds airborne replaces my heart with my stomach and introduced bile to my throat, striking the ground with barely braced knees. Sharpened spikes of pain travelled up my right leg as I struggled to overcome the effects of the fall before running away from the sanctuary turned prison. A glance forced by abnormal curiosity showed my potential attacker. The officer stood menacingly near my escape point, his eyes flashing with a demonic fury before skulking off to the entrance of the house in pursuit. His stout wife glared at my fleeing form shrieking the strange words of the tome I still grasp in my hand.

The shadows became safe havens for my hobbling state, the townsfolk sprinting past my hiding spots as they desperately searched. Occasionally their eyes which should have belonged to those locked away in padded cells would cast their gaze over me, freezing my body in a paralysis only known to those who have experienced true fear before I was sent crawling to another set of shadows. The journey to the workshop felt like an eternity, hundreds of possible scenarios shot past my mind. Would I need to take a life to survive today? Would I be able to do such a heinous act?

Finally, the familiar building came into view and with it my escape, there sat my car reflecting the lights of the building’s interior as a beacon of hope. I readied myself to make the final journey, preparing my weary and injured limbs for this final stretch of exertion. 

“Found you, boy!” Suddenly my body was lifted from the safety of the darkness, and the back of my head struck the brick walls. My dazed mind barely registering the sudden warmth travelling down my back as blood cascaded down from an opening like a morbid crimson river. “You thought you could escape.” A lisped voice mocked before something hard strikes my face. My fading vision lurched as I forced myself to stare up at my attacker, the grinning mechanic chuckled wheezingly before raising the tire iron that was gripped firmly in his hand once more. “The great one shall bless me for this.” The iron was brought down, and my sight was overcome with black and red. The blood I felt escaping from my busted lip splatters the wall with thin red trickles and the blow clouded my mind. Barely registering my body striking the ground amidst vile laughter.

IV

When my mind was brought back from the land of darkness and my body had begun to return to its senses, I foolishly thought it was a dream. A temporary case of madness brought forth by the stress of staying in the strange town. However, the rattling of chains alongside the dulling pain brought forth by the tire iron robbed me of this fantasy. The darkness around me was lit by crudely constructed torches, revealing the townsfolk staring up at me with almost hungry animalistic anticipation.

My wrists bound by leather binds and attached to the steel chains pulled me off the ground. Coarse stone pressed against my spine as my graze shifted to above me. There Crying Rock loomed over me, a large nail driven into its surface held my chains in place.

“So, you have awakened my friend.” The policeman’s voice called out through the chanting crowd, silencing them. He walked towards me with long confident strides, a large sacrificial dagger resting in his left hand reflecting the torches like a well-polished mirror and his torso was painted with the marks of the town’s blasphemous church. He stops before me and smiled, it’s wide and friendly and in it, I could see glimpses of the man who picked up a stranger on the side of a road. 

“I see the fear in your eyes.” He raised the dagger’s point towards me, chants spoken in harsh alien tongues increasing in volume with his actions. “Well you’ve noticed, haven’t you? No kids play in the streets, a toddler’s crying for its mother has not echoed through our town for nearly 3 years now.” The officer dropped the weapon to his side and grimaced, his face hidden by the shadows. The rest of the townsfolk having stopped their tribalistic wailing, not daring to speak a word as he continued his tirade. 

“People were just not getting pregnant; we don’t know why no doctor any of us spoke to could tell us the problem.” He stopped once more, his wife Charlotte whose stomach was now bulging at the seams gently placed her hands on his shoulder, his words began reaching my ears once more. “I held my child in my arms before she never got to take her first breath… She was so small. The town was beginning to lose hope but then he came.

“He had seemed like not much this stranger, dressed like a preacher, he even had his own bible. But the words he spoke were not of Jesus and his followers but of the Mother and her thousand young. She blessed those who worshipped her and accepted her blessings. The next week he stayed with us, speaking the words of the Mother and casting us in her light.” 

The crowd gathered around my hanging body and the rambling madman with almost child-like glee, their faces showing the same enchanted look of individuals who’ve heard a story a hundred times but never tired of it, always willing to listen to the same repeated words. Jamie had turned his back to me, the mark of the Mother’s church drawn across his portrait of skin.

“The day that the preacher left was when we found out a miracle had occurred; Charlotte was pregnant, and the Mother’s teachings were left on the table. We found our purpose and with it the price we must take to make sure this new life is brought into the world. Llll lw'nafh l' ah'lw'nafh gn'th'bthnk ahnythor ah mgepluln” The Daemoniac words grated along my inner ear like sandpaper, made even more loathsome by the crowd joining in to this perversion of church sermons. The officer’s eyes filled with madness and being driven on by the blood-thumping chants continued his religious tirade. “For life to live blood must be drawn, that is the words we have been taught for our children to be brought into this world.”   
The blade was drawn up, ready to be plunged into my heart and have my lifeblood water the outback desert under my feet. But as it neared my vulnerable flesh a woman’s cries stalled its journey. Charlotte lay on the ground, clutching her stomach amidst her harrowing cries of tormented pain. “Jamie it’s coming!” The knife fell silently onto the dusty floor and my would-be killer leaves me, no longer a man driven by his abnormal mind. Simply a husband seeking to assure the wellbeing of his wife.

The onlookers rushed forward to help the couple leaving me dangling in my confinement. Alive but still held by straps and chains. The rough leather of my bonds cut into the soft skin of my wrists, rubbing away the flesh and sending small trails of vibrant crimson running down my arms. The crowd remained drawn to the labour-stricken woman, with only a few stragglers there to potentially notice my attempts to escape, but the cultists find themselves more occupied with giving words of encouragement rather than turning towards their captive.

The skin teared and rubbed away, only the fear of discovery kept my tongue from crying out in agony whatever sound that may escape my lips quickly being masked by Charlotte. Her screams were becoming more and more drawn out amongst the constant shouts of “push” and “it’s coming”. But the constant cries of encouragement were lessening, replaced by disheartening almost crippling silence, Charlotte’s cries become those of joy as she finally brings a new life into the world…and then the screams started.

A harsh, inhuman roar travelled across the desert followed by the tearing of flesh and screeches of terror. These sounds, ungodly in nature and horrific in tone forced my attempts to escape. I twisted and turned in my shackles trying desperately to block out the sounds of whatever Charlotte had birthed. With a tear of flesh and a cry of pain as I collapsed to the ground, the leather straps hanging uselessly on Crying Rock, the blood from my tattered wrists running down its surface. That is all that would be drawn from me today.

I limped past the corpses of the townsfolk, Jamie staring at me from the side of the path his limbs crushed by extreme force and a large bite wound in his torso. However, I could spare little sympathy for the dead unless I wished to join them once again keeping to the shadows in fear of any remaining cultists and whatever vile thing is hunting them. The screams of the damned followed me back into the town and all the way back to where it all started, the officer’s house. 

The police cruiser in all of its battered glory shone like a beacon of hope, it was my ticket out of this hellscape and I’d be damned if I didn’t seize this chance. The door was torn open much to the wrath of my wounded limps and the key sate in the ignition, at last, a stroke of luck! Thank god for small-town habits. As I turned the key, I heard that hideous cry once more and there in the rear lights of the car, it lied. The thing stood there, nearly Indescribable. So many mouths. I drove off into the night leaving behind the madness of Crying Rock and the screeches of the damned.

V

It had been a passing group of tourists that had saved me apparently, it must have been the sight. A half-madman in a stolen police cruiser with nearly infected wrists sprouting nonsense of monsters and cults, it’s an almost humorous image to think about now. 

After being airlifted to Alice Springs for treatment a lot of things just flew over my morphine-addled mind. Questions about the cruiser and Crying Rock, it’s missing inhabitants and the events that happened there. The remnants of the cult activities cleared my name of any foul play and the sightings of that horrible thing were chalked up to stress-induced hallucinations. If only it were so simple.

I had sat in that bed thinking over the incidents that had occurred in Crying Rock over and over, a story like this should have made journalist like myself salivate at the mouth with all its mystery and intrigue but all it did was bring the taste of bile to mine. I don’t think this career choice is mine to follow. Instead, I spent days recovering with a book I had taken from the Police Cruiser, a small black leather thing filled with strange chants and phrases, but it all captured my attention all the same.

For while the path of Journalism no longer suited me, I had found a greater calling with Her. She would guide my path, for while I am now a doomed man, I will accept my fate with her in mind. It was in that hospital bed under the night of the full moon that I gave myself to her, just like her previous speaker I gave out the words which turned the Mother of a Thousand Young’s gaze to me from her corner of the universe “Geb Y' fhtagnor Shub-Niggurath”. I am now hers to command and she has given me the task to find the newest child, the one that got away.

Searching long and hard brought this condemned man little comfort but it did give me purpose, I would find the child or as I sit here in this room in a haze, it has found me. So, after I put down my pen I shall go to the door and greet the creature I saw on that night so long ago, a mother shall gaze upon her young through my eyes. So, farewell whoever may read this, whether it is men in black suits or a poor unfortunate soul, there is only one thing to say as my final moment approaches.

Shub-Niggurath waits.


End file.
